


to become immortal, and then die

by acertainheight



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, kissing and feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 07:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7881418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acertainheight/pseuds/acertainheight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke was beautiful, Isabela thought. Not beautiful in a way you notice from a distance, not <i>pretty</i>—but beautiful like some priceless thing, the sort of thing Isabela tried to avoid touching and always ended up breaking anyway. Picture-perfect. Isabela half wanted to leave her mark all over Hawke and half wanted to back away, leaving her unspoiled before it was too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to become immortal, and then die

**Author's Note:**

> the prompt was mostly just "kissing" but this has probably an unnecessary amount of dramatic angst for a story about kissing. set early-ish in act II, pre-to catch a thief.

Isabela watched Hawke from across the table, her own heartbeat thundering in her ears and her fingers wrapped too tight around her cards, crinkling the edges. One foot tapped out a jittery rhythm; for a woman with a perfect flush in her hand, she was unusually on edge.

It wasn't like her, this tension—four drinks and counting in, and her shoulders still felt tight. And it wasn't like her to pay this much attention to anything other than palming cards and sliding them between her thigh and the bench. Or into her corset. Or her bandana. But it was getting harder not to pay attention to Hawke with every passing day. Isabela watched her like she was trying to memorize every freckle on her nose, like she might never see her again. The particular blue of her eyes in candlelight after a few drinks, the sharp angles of her jaw and high cheekbones, the way her dark hair stuck sideways and upwards at the end of every night from her hands running through it all day long. The way she threw her head back when she laughed in a wild, shameless crow. (Andraste's flaming knickers, her laugh!) The slow, crooked smile she aimed at Isabela when their eyes met across the table. The way her face was so open, so trusting, like Isabela didn't always steal her best cards and like Isabela didn't think about leaving Kirkwall and never looking back every day of her life.

Hawke was beautiful, Isabela thought. Not beautiful in a way you notice from a distance, not _pretty_ —but beautiful like some priceless thing, the sort of thing Isabela tried to avoid touching and always ended up breaking anyway. Picture-perfect. Isabela half wanted to leave her mark all over Hawke and half wanted to back away, leave her unspoiled before it was too late. Or maybe it already was too late if she was sitting here trailing her gaze down the milky slope of Hawke's neck and not fantasizing about anything more than kissing her eyelids and whispering promises she just might keep. Well—alright, maybe a _bit_ more than that.

She should say something, Isabela thought. Tonight. She could invite Hawke to stay the night for once; maybe she wouldn't have to say anything at all, maybe that would say enough. Didn't she owe Hawke that much? Maybe, maybe, maybe. And maybe not.

And then Varric kicked her in the shin under the table. She yelped, loud enough for all eyes to land on her. Varric unceremoniously kicked her again.

“It's your turn, Rivaini,” he said, sounding impatient. “Stop doing your creepy murder stare at Hawke and play.”

“Murder stare?” Hawke demanded, her innocent eyes belied by a spark of amusement. “What did I do to earn that?”

“Nothing at all, sweet thing,” Isabela said, flashing her a smile, her voice light. It was a little _too_ easy, Isabela thought, to have such wild and reckless thoughts in her head and keep them out of her mouth. Either a skill or a character defect, she figured. Quite possibly both. “I was only frowning out of pity over how terrible you are at this game.”

A grin bloomed across Hawke's face at that. She was, in fact, utterly terrible; sometimes, when Varric didn't wedge himself and his aura of disapproval between them, Isabela would slide cards to Hawke underneath the table. Just enough help to bolster her confidence for one round before Isabela inevitably cheated her way to a pile of gold at the end. She'd tried to teach Hawke a few tricks, inviting her back to her room under that perfectly innocent pretense, but the cards always ended up forgotten. Hawke was a terrible student, to say nothing of Isabela's ethics as a teacher.

Merrill shifted in her seat beside Hawke. “What does a murder stare look like? Is it different from a regular stare?”

“Like this.” Isabela smiled at her sweetly and then let the smile drop away, her face going slack and her eyes hardening. She arched one brow and maintained the cold gaze until Merrill started to squirm. And then Isabela grinned. “See?”

“Oh!” Merrill lit up. “But you weren't looking at Hawke like that at all! You were making sweet eyes at her.”

Anders folded his cards and dropped his chin into his hands. “No, she looked like she was thinking something vulgar. Just play the game, please.”

“I'm almost always thinking something vulgar.” Isabela spread her cards across the table in front of her. “But enough about me. Let's talk about how much coin I'm owed.”

“You cheat,” Fenris growled. Isabela gave him the most saccharine smile she could muster as she reached across the table to draw his gold towards her.

“That's the whole point. It's not my fault you have clumsy fingers, sweetness.”

Hawke still had that crooked grin on her face. She leaned across the table, sliding Isabela the tiny pile of coin she'd earned not from a Wicked Grace victory but from Varric's bet that she wouldn't be able to finish a tankard of the sour dark swill he favored in one draught. She'd been pink-cheeked and stumbling over her words ever since. “Isabela _is_ excellent with her fingers,” she remarked to no one in particular. Varric dropped his head to the table and groaned.

“You're drunk,” Anders said reprovingly. “You're all drunk and any minute now I'm going to end up stuck in the middle of another bar brawl I didn't start.”

Isabela laughed and let her gaze skim over Hawke for one indulgent second. She had a soft spot for bar brawls, but it would be hard to ever top the one where Hawke waltzed into her life—and managed to stick there for three years now. Back when Hawke seemed impressive, those intense eyes and that sword on her back, before Hawke was the woman who made Isabela laugh until she cried and then kissed away the tears pooled at the corners of her eyes. That was the sort of thing, Isabela decided, she ought to avoid thinking about if she wanted to stay sane. “Not drunk enough! Let's have another round. This one's on—oh, Aveline!”

Aveline seemed to have appeared out of absolutely nowhere, standing behind Hawke in full uniform with her arms crossed and her frown skeptical. “I see I've walked in on a mess in the making. Like usual.”

“Here,” Hawke said too quickly, pushing up from her own seat and almost tripping over her feet in the process; Isabela's fingers itched to push away the hair that fell over Hawke's forehead with the jerky movement. Hawke grabbed at Aveline's elbow, just a little unsteady. “Join us for a hand. You can have my seat.”

Isabela leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands. She smiled. “But wherever will you sit, sweet thing?”

Hawke grinned wide and without hesitation. “Is there room on your side?”

“No,” Varric and Fenris said as one. But they went utterly ignored. Isabela slid over just an inch, paying no heed to Varric's complaints as she nudged him precariously close to the edge of the bench; Fenris moved away of his own accord.

Hawke dropped into the open space, tossing one leg over Isabela's, close enough to practically be in her lap. She leaned over, lips brushing Isabela's ear in a way that made her heart stutter. “So were you really staring at me? Before?” she asked. Her whisper was just a little too loud, a little too eager.

Isabela swallowed and tried to keep her voice light, a difficult task with Hawke's hand on her thigh and Hawke's hot breath against her neck. “You heard what Anders said.”

She could feel Hawke's lips curl up in a smile against her neck. “About something vulgar? Tell me more.”

Aveline's grunt interrupted Isabela's racing thoughts. “Have they been like this all night?”

Varric sighed like he'd never known suffering any greater in all his life. “They're just getting started, I think.”

“Well, I think they're cute,” Merrill piped up. Anders and Fenris let out scoffs so simultaneous as to be indistinguishable.

“I think they're talking about us,” Hawke whispered. She leaned in closer, pressing her sharp nose into Isabela's neck, nearly as close as any two people could be. Her hand slid further up Isabela's leg.

Isabela took a deep breath. Hawke's hand—long fingers, calloused fingertips, intimately familiar and no less thrilling for it—was hot against the bare skin of her thigh. She waited for her heart to settle and then she turned her head, tangling one hand in Hawke's disheveled hair and guiding her so their foreheads bumped. “We'd better really give them something to talk about, then.”

Anders jumped up in a blur; Fenris followed him almost as hastily, neither pausing for even a stammered goodbye. Varric, either patient or intent on getting in one more drink, just groaned. “You want something, Aveline? I'm going back to the bar.”

Aveline rubbed her forehead. “Make it strong. I'll keep an eye on our resident disasters.”

Varric lifted a handful of gold from Isabela's pile. She glanced up at him, distracted from Hawke for just an instant, and he chuckled. “You know you owe me, Rivaini. No complaints.”

“Mmph,” she mumbled, the best retort she could manage with Hawke's lips red-hot on her neck. It was admirable, the way Varric could go on about how she'd better leave well enough alone with Hawke until he was blue in the face and still shamelessly take her coin with a smile. She didn't think there were many better friends in all the world, disapproving sighs and all.

Hawke was sloppy when she was drunk, pressing open-mouthed kisses to Isabela's jaw, to her throat, her ear, aimless and hungry. No more shy eyes behind long lashes, no more wild glint in her eye that always meant she was about to say something recklessly sweet. Nothing but desperation. And as Isabela turned into Hawke and dragged her up into a kiss, she thought: _this is it, this is enough._ Messy barroom kisses, skin on skin, no time for either one to say anything at all. No waking up beside one another. And if it wasn't enough—well, it had to be, didn't it? Isabela knew better than to _want._ She'd known better from the start.

They'd been doing this for months now. No—nearly a year, maybe. Isabela had lost track of the time. Everything had faded into a blur of Hawke after that first kiss, pressed together in the alleyway and laughing against each other's lips. _Don't worry,_ Hawke had promised then, one hand cupping Isabela's cheek and her eyes darkly serious. _We're looking for the same thing._

Isabela hadn't trusted her—not Hawke, who had stared at Isabela like she hung the moon from the moment they met, like no one had looked at her in over a decade now, like Isabela was someone so much better than she knew she was—but she'd _wanted_ to trust her. She'd nearly managed to at first. Hawke's smile was terribly convincing each time she promised that it was all casual, sex and bodies and no room in the mix for any feelings whatsoever. Isabela had chosen to listen to those promises, just like she'd chosen to ignore all the times Hawke's eyes shone seaglass bright and she whispered all the things Isabela didn't want to hear. _You're incredible, Isabela, you are_ and _I can't ever stop thinking about you_ and _I think I could look at you for, for, forever._ Or all the times Hawke gave her that awful, inscrutable stare but insisted she wasn't thinking about anything at all. One way or another, Hawke was a liar; it wasn't Isabela's fault for believing what she wanted to believe, was it?

Only—plenty of other things were Isabela's fault. She stared too long and too hard; she found herself telling Hawke the secrets she'd never wanted to tell anyone at all. She was the one who couldn't stop doing awful, unforgivable things like thinking complicated thoughts about Hawke. Making everything tangled and knotty and impossible. And now she couldn't figure out how to unravel any of it.

“Hey,” Hawke said, soft. It took Isabela a second to focus on Hawke's voice instead of the deep, dark blue of her eyes. “You're not here. What are you thinking about?”

Isabela reached up and wove her fingers into Hawke's hair. “Nothing important,” she murmured. “Help me stop thinking.”

Hawke was nothing if not obliging. She shifted in the seat, half-straddling Isabela now. Too tall for her own good, Hawke fit awkwardly between Isabela and the table, and Isabela knew she'd have an ache in her neck all the next day from craning up to meet Hawke's mouth. But all of it was worth it for the warmth of Hawke against her, on top of her, right where she ought to be, so Isabela dragged Hawke down towards her and kissed her like the world was ending. Hawke's hands settled on her waist, warm and steady. She tasted like sour ale and smoke and safety; her lips were soft, just a little chapped from the way she bit them when she worried, and just right against Isabela's. When Isabela drew back to see no sign of Varric or Aveline, the rest of the bar seemed marvelously irrelevant. She cupped Hawke's cheek in one hand and kissed her again.

Hawke always touched her like they'd spent a month apart, years and years, not an hour smiling at each other from across the table. Like even the briefest of separations was too much to bear. Isabela hated that thought nearly as much as she loved Hawke's hands roaming over her; she tried to focus on the hands on her waist, grounding her, tying her to Hawke and the Hanged Man and all of Kirkwall—a little longer, not quite long enough.

Hawke mumbled wordless affirmations against Isabela's lips as Isabela let her hands trail down over Hawke's body, from her broad shoulders to her chest—her heart pounding like it might jump right out—to the plane of her stomach. Hawke felt pliant, eager and willing; Isabela wanted her like she'd never wanted anyone. Impulse struck. Isabela pushed Hawke away until she fell, back flat on the table. Coins scattered out from under Hawke, clinking to the floor, glinting from beneath her tangled hair like stars in the night. Isabela arched above from an arm's length away and soaked in the sight of her.

“Oh,” Hawke gasped, her voice rough. “Oh, Bela, we'll make a scene.”

Isabela gripped Hawke's hips and trailed her gaze over her body, from the creamy skin where her shirt was pushed up to the sunburnt tip of her nose. “That's the point, sweet thing.”

Hawke laughed, almost breathless, and grabbed at Isabela's arms to pull her closer. Isabela closed the distance between them, kissing Hawke eagerly. Hawke was hard and steady and warm beneath her; there were few things Isabela liked better in all the world than Hawke on her back. She could feel eyes on them from all around. Good. Let them see. Everyone here knew Hawke, with her bright eyes and endless generosity, her willingness to do errands and dirty work for half of Kirkwall, her tendency to spend coin she didn't have on everyone but herself. So, Isabela thought, let them see Hawke here beneath her, _hers_. And—here Isabela's stomach twisted and she scraped her teeth down Hawke's neck to distract herself—let anyone else who ever has their hands on Hawke remember that Isabela's hands were here first, longest, best—

Dimly, she heard Hawke moan beneath her; she felt Hawke buck up into her, drunk and reckless. Hawke wasn't like this usually. Never showy. But Isabela liked it. _Let them see. Something to remember me by._  She ground down against Hawke and ran a finger along the waist of her trousers, slipping it under just an inch.

“Tell me,” Isabela murmured against her ear, “tell me how you want me, Hawke. Say it so everyone can hear.”

Hawke took two tremulous breaths and tilted her head to the side, baring more of her neck to Isabela's hungry kisses. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, too soft for anyone but Isabela: “You know what I want, how much I—how much—how I feel about you. How I care about you.”

Isabela froze. She did know; they both knew. And Hawke was drunker than she'd thought. The seconds ticked past, Hawke's pulse quick against Isabela's still lips, the world carrying on all around them. Only the tightness in Isabela's chest finally reminded her to breathe.

She opened her mouth with some trite dismissal on the tip of her tongue. The next thing she knew, she was coughing and sputtering, water dripping from her hair and down onto Hawke. Blinking water out of her eyes, alight with fury, she looked up to see Aveline with an empty bucket in hand. Every head in the bar was turned towards them.

Aveline let her bucket clatter to the table. “I think that's been enough of a show. Why don't you two idiots both clear out of here before I have you arrested for indecency?”

Isabela felt everything inside her crumble into dust. Soaking wet and a far cry closer to sober than a minute before, she slid off of Hawke and licked her dry lips, struggling to draw up some retort. “Truly you are the hero of the people, O Lady Manhands. No one wanted to see that.”

Aveline eyed her with what was either concern or distaste or both. “You know I won't hesitate to haul you off again,” she warned. She reached to pull Hawke upright by the shoulder. "Can you walk yourself home, Hawke, or do you need an escort?”

Hawke blinked. She shook her head like a dog, scattering water everywhere. “I, um—I don't know if I'm planning on leaving.”

Hawke cast a searching glance at Isabela. Her eyes shone with something halfway between doubt and hope. Isabela wasn't sure which was worse. It was wrong, she thought, to want so desperately for Hawke to have faith in her when she knew she didn't deserve it. But want it she did.

Isabela drew a deep breath. She shook her head, lifted a hand, and gestured vaguely at the exit; the light slid right out of Hawke's eyes and, like the coward she was sure she was, Isabela dropped her gaze to the table and tried to pretend Hawke wasn't standing right there staring her down. “Go on, sweet thing. I think I've had enough for one night.”

Aveline touched Hawke's slumped shoulder. “I'll walk you home, make sure you don't go face first into any walls.”

Hawke nodded. She didn't laugh and she didn't say another word. And Isabela knew she'd never say another word about it; Hawke would act like nothing had ever happened, would greet her with the widest smile, and Isabela would try to shake the memory of the hurt in Hawke's eyes.

Isabela stared at her hands until they were well and truly gone; she could feel Hawke watching her all the way out the door. And then, finally, she made her escape into the dark hall in the back. Her little room and her little bed, with no room left over for long legs and long conversations. It was the right thing, she thought, to send Hawke away.

As she leaned against the doorframe of her room, staring in at the wobbly desk in the corner, she tried to convince herself of that. It would have been the wrong night to bring Hawke back. No matter how badly she wanted it. Whether or not she wanted it at all.

She stepped forward and let the door swing shut behind her. She could just picture it: Hawke wandering to the desk, staring down at the letters and the notes piled up, and looking up with those unsuspecting eyes to ask who Wall-Eyed Sam was and if Isabela needed any help tracking him down. And then there were all the crumpled papers off to the side, draft after draft of Isabela trying to fit every single thing she wanted to say to Hawke into the briefest of apologies. She had every step all figured out, except for the step where she managed to run far away from Kirkwall and never think about Hawke every again.

She wasn't ready to lie to Hawke about one more thing—to beg her for one more favor. Not tonight.

Tomorrow, maybe. But not tonight.

 


End file.
